LIFE IN MILTON.

"Life in Milton is a very different thing to me, if you are

here or elsewhere; but I warn you against letting me cling to

your sympathy, as I may if you give me so much of it. I have

such a sense of vacuum in life, that I am in danger of leaning

upon any one who will let me lean upon him; and my sense of

impaired powers is so constant and oppressive, that I need to

be driven to action, rather than spared it, to rouse my

energies. This is no false modesty; I am sure that I am not

myself; I have not yet come to act freely in my new position in

life; I am not 'at home,'--shall I ever be in this world?"

Thus did Mary Ware write to a friend and true sympathizer, whose

residence in Milton was one of the great inducements that had drawn her

to that place. She had been there but a short time, and had not yet

risen from the complete exhaustion of body and mind--the effect of years

of solicitude, exertion, and suffering--for which she made too little

allowance. She had been more than mortal, if she had not felt the

effect, especially in the inevitable reaction when the great anxiety and

demand ceased. She would not allow that or any thing to plead for her;

and her danger was, as we have seen, that of forgetting the designed

and necessary sympathy between body and mind. She did not always forget

it. Her balanced mind led her to suspect the true cause of the change

that had come over her; and she confessed that what she had called "a

stroke of mental paralysis" was only physical, though affecting for a

time all the powers. Still she was inclined, through its own unconscious

influence, to give it a different name. "I doubt not you will smile at

my quick sensibility to every thing which is likely to injure myself;

and I am deeply convinced that I am growing more and more selfish."

Selfish in moral sensibility! May we not be instructed by this, as by

the other aspects of her eventful life? There is good sense in the

pleasantry of her words to Emma not long before, in regard to power. "I

sometimes wonder whether you and I are doing ourselves or our

constituents justice,--whether we do not attempt too much, to do any

thing as it had best be done,--whether we secure sufficient repose of

mind to keep our judgments clear, our thoughts bright, and the supply of

mental food what it ought to be to enable us to have the best influence

of which we are capable."

The first letter which we find dated at Milton discloses much both of

the inward and the outward state.

"_Milton, June 11, 1844._

"DEAR N----:

"You have no doubt expected long ago to hear from me. You had a

right to do so, and must have wondered at my silence, as I

could not but know how much you must wish to hear of our new

life. But I have purposely forborne to write; I could not have

addressed myself to you, without uttering all that was passing

in my mind and heart; and so perfectly chaotic has been the

state of my feelings, that I was sure it was best to wait until

time and experience had arranged and quieted them, before I

trusted myself to the slightest expression. It was as if the

fountains of the great deep of my soul were broken up, and the

waters were overwhelming every power and faculty. I thought I

had anticipated the whole amount of suffering which my

isolation was to bring to me, and vainly imagined that I was

prepared to meet it with a firm mind; but nothing but

experience can picture the agonizing sense of desolation, which

entering upon a new life, unaided by the sympathy that has been

so long the light of life, brings to me. Nothing in life can

come near it, unless it be the homesickness of a little child,

when for the first time it finds itself in new scenes without

its mother's presence. At Framingham I was but living out the

plan of life which we had formed together; the sense of

association was not for a moment lost, and it was comparatively

easy to realize the continued presence of the spirit. But on

leaving that home, I seemed for the first time to be cast upon

the world alone, and every moment's experience in Boston and

elsewhere only increased this feeling, until it reached its

height in the necessity of forming here a new plan of

existence, under circumstances of great responsibility,--alone.

I used to think I felt all of loneliness that could be felt, in

that little chamber in Pearl Street, and that humble cottage in

Osmotherly; but that was nothing to this. I had then never

known what perfect sympathy was; I could not understand as I

now do its loss. I have been a puzzle to myself; but I still am

sure that I would not change, one iota, the decree of

Heaven....

"We came hither the last week in April, and find everything

pleasant, and every body kind. As far as I can yet see, I think

I anticipated very truly the pros and cons of the case, not

excepting my own incapacity for the employment. One would laugh

at the idea of a woman of forty-five doubting her capacity to

teach children their letters; but the intellectual is the least

part of the concern to my view, and I still think I have no

tact for the education of children. The little I can do for my

own is through the connection which nature has established, not

a power of my own acquisition. I have determined to try the

experiment for a year, and the result only can decide the

question of the expediency of pursuing it another year. I must

consider the good of my own children first, of course.... My

time is entirely filled, from early rising to very late

sitting. The only time I can take for writing is at night when

all are in bed, and I ought to be; for the constant bustle of

children wearies my head much.

"Yours, as ever, lovingly.

"M.L.W."

So far from mental infirmity or loss, the mind of Mrs. Ware was never,

we should say, more active or energetic than at this time, as soon as

she was wholly rested. It is obvious, indeed, that the growth of the

mind had kept pace in her, as in many, with the growth of the affections

and higher aspirations. In such a character and life, mental and

spiritual are nearly synonymous. The spiritual had been always in

exercise, sharply disciplined and expanded. And thus chiefly, thus only,

we may almost say, had she advanced mentally. For she was not a student.

No period of her life had permitted her to be an extensive or habitual

reader. Persons, and not books, events and experiences, were her study.

She lost no opportunity of direct instruction, but she made it

subservient, or rather concomitant, with other engagements and positive

duty. And no better mental discipline, perhaps, could she have had, in

connection with the communion she enjoyed with the best minds, and the

lessons of her lot. We see the effect, and the progress, continually.

There is a striking difference between her earlier and later letters. We

have felt, in fact, that injustice may have been done, in giving so many

of not only the early, but the unstudied and hurried, productions of one

so pressed and unpretending. But they all serve to show her as she was.

If we mistake not, vigor rather than feebleness will be seen in her

remarks upon that vast and inexhaustible subject, which now engaged her

most,--education. She had always thought herself incompetent to teach;

and no burden or responsibility did she feel more painfully, than that

of opening, furnishing, and guiding the minds of children. This can

never seem a light or easy task, unless to the superficial in

self-knowledge and conscientiousness. Where the religious principle and

the moral aim are like hers, we can understand any confessions of

humility or distrust, in view of such a work; and we do not doubt the

entire sincerity of the fear she more than once expressed, that she had

almost done _wrong_ in giving up the reluctance she at first felt to

assume the office of a wife and mother, on account of her

disqualification for so great a charge. And now that it had become an

undivided charge, now that her children were left to her alone, and she

had engaged to be their teacher and sole guardian, she felt that the

duty, the solicitude, and the happiness of her life were centred there.

"O my dear child!"--she exclaims, in addressing one of them, and

referring to all,--"when I think of what you _may be_, my heart beats

almost impatiently to stretch forward; for if life is ever again to have

any zest to me, ever to seem like life, it must be through the

successful struggles of my children. On them I now must rely for all I

can enjoy of this world; their affection, their character, must be my

sole dependence."

In a letter to Emma, a little later, she speaks of her suffering from

the real or imagined loss of power, particularly in reference to the

young. "I sometimes think that some strange change has taken place in my

'physical'; for I cannot otherwise account for the torpor which hangs

over my mind. All the little animation I ever had seems to have

departed; and, although my mind is crowded with thoughts, they are a

dead letter when I attempt to use them for purposes of conversation. I

feel this to be a great evil in my intercourse with children. To be

sure, their own inexhaustible spirits are mostly sufficient to their

happiness; yet they need sympathy, not formally expressed, but existing

in the atmosphere about them. I think I have felt the want all my life

of a more cheerful home in early childhood, a fuller participation in

the pleasures and 'follies' of youth. I want to have my children

remember their home as the happiest spot, because the most sympathetic

as well as the most loving."

Of Mrs. Ware's seven children, all, excepting the oldest son, made part

of the family circle, with occasional absences at school. To one of the

daughters who was absent most, there are many letters containing

well-defined thoughts on intellectual and moral discipline, and

disclosing more fully the fact of her own trials of temper in early

life, to which we have before alluded, but which many find it difficult

to believe. From these letters we take the passages that follow, the

first relating to a visit to Framingham.

"_Milton, October 1, 1844._ O, I did so enjoy being upon that

sacred spot, living over again, as we can scarcely do but by

the power of association, all the details of the holy time of

which that day was the anniversary! I felt that it strengthened

my faith and trust, that I could recall there something of the

gratitude which I felt when that weary spirit was just

emancipated. I had needed this; for as the cares and

responsibilities of life have pressed more and more upon me

every day I have since lived, their accumulated weight was

beginning to keep down and obscure that brighter vision which

faith then revealed. I had a delightful walk alone in the

woods, recalling the sweet words which I had had with dear

father when we strolled through those woods together. How

strong is the power of association! I found that particular

spots revived thoughts which he had uttered when there, which

perhaps I should never again have recalled, elsewhere."

* * * * *

"_October 18, 1844._ ... I have determined, as a fixed

principle, not to go beyond my income, for any thing short of

necessity, and it is a delicate question to settle what

necessity is. I choose to take it for granted that there never

can be a question in any of our minds, that taste is to be held

in subjection to principle, and I am not only willing, but

desirous, to indulge taste, _within that limitation_, to the

utmost bounds of my ability. I think a refined taste has an

indirect, but certain influence upon morals; and I never can

believe that one of my children will ever for an instant be

pained at any restraint put upon them by a necessity which God

has ordained.

"I have great sympathy with the struggles of young people in

this matter. I well remember how often I had to school myself

(for you know that many of my associates in early life were of

the wealthy classes), when I saw my companions gratifying every

wish for amusement, instruction, and dress, while I could only

just keep decent enough not to shock them, and had to give up

all my longings for expensive amusements and accomplishments.

But I had this great advantage, by mixing familiarly with the

rich,--I soon discovered that neither goodness nor happiness

were dependent upon these adventitious circumstances, and I was

so fortunate in the characters of those whom I thus dealt with,

as to be made to feel very early in life that my own position

among them was not in the least degree affected by externals. I

soon began to look upon my oft-turned dress with something like

pride, certainly with great complacency; and to see in that,

and all other marks of my mother's prudence and consistency,

only so many proofs of her dignity and self-respect,--the

dignity and self-respect which grew out of her just estimate

of the true and the right in herself and in the world. I can

distinctly remember coming to this conclusion upon the occasion

of wearing an old-fashioned, stiff, purple silk dress, with a

narrow plaited tucker in it, to a party at Colonel P----'s,

about the year 1808; I have never had any trouble on that score

since. I did shed some tears, when I found I must give up my

long-cherished hope of learning music, some years after, but

they were 'natural tears,' and 'wiped soon.'

"But I have become garrulous, talking about my youth (as old

people are apt to), and have wandered from the case in hand."

* * * * *

"_November 8, 1844._ I feel that I must have some free

communication with you, for my heart is full to overflowing.

That I can understand all your internal trials, I have often

assured you; and, strange as it may seem to you, it is from

_experience_ that I am enabled to enter into them. In the

solitude of my early days, the consciousness of unworthiness

preyed upon my spirit, until I persuaded myself that every body

despised me, that I was nothing to any one, that nobody could

care for me for my own sake. Many and many a night have I lain

and thought of this, and looked at life through this medium,

until I wished that I had never lived, and in my agony have

cried myself into perfect hysterics. Even my mother's love

failed to satisfy me, for I thought it was only an involuntary

feeling for an only child, not depending upon or growing out of

my own deserts. O, how many precious hours of life have I

thrown away in uselessness to others, and in misery for myself,

by this morbid sensibility! Would that I could recall them!

Would that my example might ward off from you like regrets! I

had suffered many years from this cause before I discovered the

true source of my trial, or caught a glimpse of its remedy. And

when at last it flashed upon me, that it was the want of true

Christian humility, not the real conviction of inferiority,

which led to all this, I could not at once credit my own

consciousness; and many and severe were the mental exercises by

which I was led at last to understand and _feel_ the truth. I

believe this to have been a constitutional tendency; and

however much the demon may have been brought under subjection,

there have been times all along life, that it has so striven

for the mastery, that I have feared it might conquer. But

knowing one's danger is more than half the security against it,

and I have gained in happiness more than a compensation for the

warfare.

"... When we find ourselves disturbed in spirit, we very

naturally refer to the exciting cause as an excuse for it; and

however we may blame ourselves, we still feel that those whose

wrong-doing irritates us are really the most to blame. But we

must get away from this view of things, if we ever hope to

improve ourselves. As long as we live in the world, we are to

live with those who do wrong. We can never be perfect, nor can

we find others who are; and our care should be, to learn so to

control ourselves, that not only shall we cease to be tempted

to do wrong by their wrong-doing, but also cease to tempt them

by our own. And who can doubt that the best hope of improving

them is by showing them the advantage of self-control?"

* * * * *

"_December 12, 1844._ I feel that you have begun the great work

of self-education with a resolute will and I pray God to give

you strength to pursue it without faltering. I do not expect,

and you must not expect, that all can be done at a stroke. A

whole life is too little for the attainment of all we desire;

but having fairly set ourselves at work, let us go on

hopefully, cheerfully, laboring diligently, 'knowing that we

shall reap, if we faint not'; and remembering that, as we

ascend, the prospect widens before us. And although we may be

tempted to be discouraged, as we see more and more to be done,

we are to look back upon the path we have trodden, and measure

the steps we have taken, and find comfort and encouragement in

the past, for the future. Go on, in the fear and _love_ of God,

in the path which he has marked out, the path of right

principle,--and fear not,--all will be well."

* * * * *

"_January 1, 1845._ ... I can scarcely realize that the year has

come to an end, so little have I marked the progress of time

during its passage; and yet it has witnessed a great change

outwardly. But how little does mere outward circumstance affect

the life within,--how do we carry _ourselves_ with us

everywhere! Does not this fact of experience help us to

anticipate something of future retribution? The past year has

been to me one of such constant, tremendous struggle, that in

looking back upon it I seem to see nothing but the heaving of

the waves upon which my spirit had been tost. And yet I cannot

lose sight of the many bright spots, the many and great

blessings with which my life has been cheered. How should we

praise and thank God that our circle has not again been

broken,--that we are blessed with such kind friends, and the

means of improvement and usefulness! As I look forward into the

uncertain future, I sometimes feel as if I longed to know how

it will be with us at this hour next year; but a glance at the

possible picture makes me ready to exclaim, 'O blindness to the

future, kindly given!' I feel as if some great change may come,

but I can leave the whole to Him who will direct it right....

"How fully do I respond to the feeling you express of desire to

see dear father once more. Sometimes,--I know not how,--for an

instant an oblivion of the past comes over me, and the feeling

of his temporary absence returns as of old when he had gone a

journey, as if I could not wait, but _must_ see him soon. Why

is not our faith in the unseen sufficient to satisfy these

longings? Why do we not realize more fully the presence of the

spiritual? Let us remember his almost dying words: 'Body and

spirit may be separated; _spirit and spirit, never_.'"

* * * * *

"_June 26, 1845._ ... No woman can be a true woman, whatever may

be her intellectual acquirements or capacity, without that

womanly knowledge which will fit her for domestic life, and

enable her to fill 'home,' that appointed sphere of most

women's duties at some time or other, with all the comforts

which alone can make it happy. I do not mean merely the

knowledge of the daily routine of outside domestic employments;

but the cultivation of the domestic affections, the habits of

concession and self-sacrifice, of delicate attention to the

little things which go so far to make up the sum of domestic

happiness, and the mechanical facility with respect to a

thousand minor matters,--all of which nothing but practice in

the atmosphere which calls them into exercise can possibly

teach. I will not deny that I think a great deal, too, of

education in 'common domestic employments,' as a means of

happiness and usefulness. I hold that nothing can compensate

for a wilful neglect of what may be made the means of so much

comfort to others, as order, cleanliness, and a facility in

administering to the human wants of our friends, which is

peculiarly woman's province. Now, for this part of education,

home ought to be the best place. Of course it is impossible,

while attending school constantly, to find time for these other

matters, and all theoretical learning upon such subjects can be

of little use without practice."

Mrs. Ware had found another, new home,--a pleasant cottage built for her

use by a friend after she went to Milton, and entered by her and her

children toward the end of the year,--her last removal. And highly

favored did she feel, both in the society around her and the local

situation. No heart could be more alive to the beauties of that glorious

"Milton Hill" than was hers. Its rich landscape, its gorgeous sunsets,

and ever-varying hues, she enjoyed intensely, for their natural beauty,

and not less, if not more, for their moral influence. The thought of

her enthusiasm comes over us even now with subduing power, as we stand

again at her side on those beautiful heights, to which she longed to

lead _all_ her friends, and see the emotion, if we hear not the

utterance, of her glowing, admiring spirit. We catch again the earnest

words with which she urged a visit there, even in the freshness of her

widowed grief. "O this glorious view! I do hope the weather will be

good, that you may see it in all its glory. I had no conception of the

moral influence of the sublime and beautiful before. I really think one

must be _very_ wicked to be troubled about little things, within sight

of such a display of the Divine love; even children feel it."

The time had come when she might be pardoned, had she been "troubled,"

not indeed by "little things," but by some of serious import. A hidden,

insidious disease, which seldom leaves its nature long doubtful, had

begun its work, and the quickened spirit caught the first whisper of

monition. Even two years before, she had a sort of presentiment, if not

a distinct warning, of her fate, and in a pleasant way signified it to

her husband, who answered as pleasantly, and probably thought no more of

it. How much she thought of it we cannot know. But as early as the

summer of 1845 she prepared her mind for a painful operation; and, when

relieved of the immediate necessity, wrote thus to a friend: "You may

imagine the depth of my gratitude; for I could not doubt that an

operation, even if successful, would disable me for a long time; and I

could not look upon the fact of being taken off from my duties, without

much anxiety as to how my place was to be supplied. Still I have a

strong conviction that ultimately this is to end my days. But I am not

troubled at the thought, otherwise than that it is a mode of decay

distressing to others. But God's will be done!"

Mary Ware was not only to suffer, but to _do_ God's will, to the end.

And for four years longer we may follow her, and see her so busy and so

cheerful, that we might think her unaware of danger,--except that we

cannot fail to perceive in her letters how clear was her consciousness

of all that was impending. But very few knew it. The work of life went

on as usual. Her small school in the house occupied much of her time,

and interested rather than satisfied her. She does not appear to have

ever felt that she accomplished much in the way of teaching. She entered

upon the task distrustingly. "I begin my little school to-morrow, and I

doubt if any girl of sixteen, making her first essay at school-keeping,

ever felt more dread of the thing. I am ashamed and almost amused at my

own cowardice. The difficulty is, I have a great idea about a small

thing, and cannot feel fully that it is 'little by little the bird

builds his nest.'" There may have been another difficulty,--that

children so young exercised only her patience, and could not call into

action the higher powers, nor make her forget herself as she always

wished to do. But there was another and absorbing work of mental and

moral training in which she was constantly engaged,--that of her older

children, for whom, by communion or correspondence, she was striving to

do all that was possible in the time that remained to her.

About this time Mrs. Ware received from a friend, who knew her whole

condition, the offer of a "home" for either of her children that she

would be willing to spare, and for any period. She felt deeply the

kindness of the offer, as will be seen in her reply to it,--where we

also see her views of the wisdom of separating children, and giving them

unequal advantages.

"_Milton, December 18, 1844._

"MY DEAR FRIEND:--

"As I read over again your precious letter, I wonder if there

is any pardon for one who could have delayed so long to answer

it. There could not be, were it possible that such delay

proceeded from indifference, or want of just appreciation of

the feelings which dictated the letter. To neither of these

charges can I plead guilty; and can only say in my excuse, that

I have not had, since it was found safely rolled up in a bale

of carpeting, the command of one hour of daylight, and that my

eyes have been so troublesome that I could not use them at the

only time when my mind was free to write. Thus have I been

compelled to put it off; until now, on the eve of leaving home,

I dare not put it off any longer, and am compelled to take the

hour of midnight to tell you, as I may be able, almost without

eyes, how deeply grateful I am for it. You have indeed shown

yourself the true friend by your benevolent proposition; what

more could a friend do for another? But delightful as is the

thought that any of my children could have such a home in the

heart of one I so truly love, I dare not lift a finger, or say

a word, which would decide such a question. I feel my own

short-sightedness so much, I believe so fully in the

circumstantial leading of Providence, that I could not venture

to anticipate the future expediency of any arrangement, the

advantages of which must depend upon a fitness of things _when

the time comes_, of which we now cannot know any thing. How

little we can tell what a child may be at any future

period,--what its tastes, or its adaptedness to any particular

position in life,--and how great may be the embarrassment which

might arise from any arrangement made in anticipation of

results which are never to be reached!

"I have always had a strong objection to giving one member of a

family any great external advantages over the rest. I had

rather all should stand upon the same level, as a better

security for the cultivation of that family affection and

sympathy which I believe to be a valuable preservative of

virtue. I should much prefer that all my children should live

together, if it were possible to find any one to act as a

judicious head to such a community, than risk the growth of

separate interests and a feeling of superiority from any

outward cause. This, you will say, is impracticable, as, in the

common course of events, one is likely to gain for himself a

better position than another; but when a strong family

affection is established by early dependence, I have no fear

for after influences,--I am willing to risk them. Yet this is

only an idea, and I have no hope of its accomplishment; both

the means and the person would be wanting, were I taken from

them now, and I should leave them to their fate with the

delightful confidence that there are many instruments in God's

hands ready to do for them what may be best. Bless you, for the

satisfaction of knowing that it is in your heart to be one of

them. I have much anxiety about my children, not from any

peculiar difficulty in their original characters, but from my

deep sense of incapacity to guide any child in its progress

through life.... I want Faith, I want Hope,--O, I want a great

deal which I ought to have gained, by this time, to make life

bearable. And yet, when I think of the possibility of being

soon taken, I can hardly say, 'I am ready.' Pray for me that it

may be otherwise when the time comes.

"Ever yours, most truly.

"MARY L. WARE."

As the months advanced, Mrs. Ware was more and more occupied and active,

evidently feeling that her time was short. And yet we see none of that

anxiety about the future which such a conviction is apt to create, in

reference either to the present world or another. As regarded another

world, and her approach to it, we doubt if she ever felt the slightest

dread or unwillingness to go. Not from any sense of fitness or

self-sufficiency, but with the deepest humility there mingled the

firmest trust; and a trust that refused to separate the exercise of

justice from mercy, in God. She could trust the one as much as the

other, and she could not distrust either; but, assured that a perfectly

righteous and omniscient Being would do exactly that which was needful

for her purification and perfection, she rested there,--and left all

else. We say this of the peculiarity of her faith, if it be peculiar,

from personal knowledge of her mind on this point, and from her own

explicit declarations at a later day. And we refer to them at this time,

to say that the same convictions sustained and tranquillized her in

regard to the future of this life for those whom she was to leave

behind. From the earliest moment of the expectation or apprehension of

death, a mother's mind must turn strongly and fix intently on her

children. And to most mothers this is the great struggle. Who can

wonder? Who will reprove, even if the struggle be bitter, and the vision

dim? HE will not, who has given a parent's affections, and likened to

them his own. Many a mother, who could leave the world without a pang

for herself, will suffer and fear for her children. It is only the

highest faith that prevents all this suffering and fear. Such, we think,

was Mary Ware's. Not in commendation do we say it,--we know not that it

deserves that,--but as the simple fact, that while she was always

doubtful of her power to guard and train her children in the best way,

she never feared to leave them with God, in reference either to things

temporal or spiritual. Even when she could see no sufficient provision

for their temporal comfort, she seemed unable to believe that she was

essential to that comfort, or that her life would be better for them

than her death. She _knew_ that that would be best which God appointed.

Does not this belong to the highest faith? No one could induce her to

make any request, or express even a wish, as to future arrangements, the

outward condition or fortune of any child. Many wishes, many prayers,

did she offer for the inward condition and the spiritual preparation for

both worlds,--but only the spiritual. "I could write a sheet," she says

to a mother who was herself anxious,--"I could write a sheet upon the

text your letter gives me, with regard to the preparation of our

children for life. But I can only say, Why should we feel anxious for

them when we are gone? Do we not see that the finest characters are

those which are formed by the necessity of acting for themselves?" And

again: "I have felt so grateful for having had health and strength to do

for Henry what I was sure no one else could do, that I had nothing more

to ask, and could submit to any thing. I hope I shall not find my faith

fail, come what will. I do _not_ feel that I am as essential to my

children. I do not feel that I am competent to train them."

If we have given of late none of Mrs. Ware's "annuals," it has only been

from the abundance of other material. They were continued without a

single failure to the end of life. From two of them at this period, we

take such parts as will help to show the state and progress of her mind.

"_Milton, December 31, 1845._

"MY DEAR N----:

"Twenty years ago at this hour, I was writing my annual upon a

pair of bellows, crouching over a small coal fire, in poor old

Aunty's chamber at Osmotherly. What changes, what a variety of

weal and woe, does a glance at the intervening space present to

one's mind! It is all too familiar to you to make a

recapitulation necessary, and you can understand, without any

explanation, the wide difference between the nature of the

loneliness I then felt, and that which I now experience. Have I

not gained that which can never be lost, a bond of union with

an immortal spirit which can never be broken? O that I could

realize more the perpetuity of this spiritual union! then

should I suffer less from this merely earthly isolation. But I

have gained a little since last year, dear N----; either I have

become more wonted by time to my condition, or the increasing

care and anxiety about my children have taken my thoughts away

from myself; be it what it may, I am more able to turn my mind

from that one idea of change, and have acquired a more tranquil

state of mind, under the consciousness of it. So far, so good;

but God knows there is still enough of sin in me, to keep me

from that state of quiet trust which, as a believer in

Providence, I ought to have. I cannot get away from the

terrible sense of insufficiency for the great work which lies

before me in the education of my children, and I cannot learn

to rely, as I should, upon the All-sufficient, for the supply

of that deficiency. It is a living, acting Faith that I want;

how shall I get it?...

"It is long since I have written to you, but I have little of

variety to detail. I spent a fortnight in November, and another

in December, in Boston, helping Dr. John in the completion of

his work, and since my return, three weeks ago, I have been

very fully employed as nurse and maid of all work; for I found

C----, W----, H----, and my Margaret, all sick. E---- too has

not been well. Help is not to be got here extempore, and, with

the exception of two nights from a nurse, I had no aid, until

within a few days I have had a little girl of thirteen. You

know something about such concatenations, and need not be told,

that under such circumstances one finds no time for anything

but supplying the bodily wants of those about us. Add to this,

that I have been more than half sick myself all the time with

one of my tedious coughs, keeping me awake at night and tiring

me terribly in the day.

"Only think of Emma's trip to England,--and, good soul, that

she should go and see 'Cousin Jane' for me, and George Lovell,

too! Does she not always do more than any one else?

"Your faithful

"M. L. W."

* * * * *

"_Milton, December 31, 1846._

"Thirty years, is it not, dear N----, since I began to make you

my mother-confessor upon this anniversary? A long life, as some

people would have used it; a long life it seems to me, as I

look back to that first hour of consciousness that there was

one being in the world to whom I could be as egotistical as I

pleased, with impunity. A long life it has truly been to me,

not so much in its usefulness or improvement, as in the variety

of its experiences, internal as well as external. In fact, it

seems like many lives; and as I survey different portions of it

in retrospect, I can scarcely believe in my own identity with

the being who appears upon the stage in each. How has it been

with you? I am anxious to know whether others are as sensible

as I am of a change of character from the influence of

circumstances. We are wont to say, and I think I have seen

strong proof of the truth of the assertion,--that 'the child is

father to the man.' In truth, he is the future man, in all the

leading traits of his character, as well at five as at fifty

years of age; and yet I do feel as if I were not the same being

that I was three years ago. Whether it is that I am growing old

and losing my faculties, or whether the responsibilities of

life have paralyzed my mind, or that the loss of that

refreshment to the spirit which comes from the reciprocation of

an affection for which there is no substitute, has exhausted my

strength by depriving me of my spirit's resting-place, I know

not. But certain it is, that from being a person of some

decision of character, some energy, some judgment, I feel as if

I were reduced to a mere child, ready to lean upon any body's

judgment but my own, heartsick and homesick at the sense of

incapacity to meet my duties. Is this want of actual power, or

want of faith to use the power that is left? I don't know. All

I know certainly is this: that I find myself utterly inadequate

to the duties which belong to me, and am in consequence in a

perpetual state of anxiety, which incapacitates me from doing

or enjoying. This is a new strain, you will say; for me, truly

it is a new state of mind, and whether remediable or not, I

cannot tell; can you tell me?...

"... How strangely various seem to be the means appointed to

bring about the same end in life; and it is not easy to see how

our various lots can all be brought to bear the same fruit of

holiness and happiness. The greatest evil to me in life is the

perpetual hurry, hurry, to get through the business of the day

without leaving any necessary duty undone,--without a moment

for quiet thought or intellectual improvement,--while here is

my neighbor, it may be, at a loss how to fill up the vacant

hours, thankful to resort to sleep to dispose of some of them.

Does it seem as if we were both destined to the same end? The

more I look upon life, the more I feel that the outside has

less to do with improvement or happiness. And dissatisfied as I

sometimes feel with my own position, I know not how I should

improve it, on the whole. When I look calmly at my

deficiencies, I see that they are not so much the effect of any

outside cause, as the weakness of my own character. And if at

times this brings a feeling akin to despair, it makes me less

restless than I should otherwise be.

"Dear N----, I have a strong feeling that this is to be a year

of change to me; not from any present indications, but that it

seems presumptuous to expect that the trial which I believe

hangs over me should be long averted. Pray for me, that I may

be prepared for it. I fear I shall never be any better. And so

I begin the year, not wishing to look to its end, but with more

indifference as to what that end may be to me, than I ever felt

before. I fear this is not a right feeling....

"Yours always.

"M. L. W."

From the many letters of sympathy which Mrs. Ware wrote, we have drawn

little. They were sure to be many, from her position, her large circle

of intimate friends, the unreserved confidence reposed in her, and her

warm affections. How warm and tender those affections were, how prompt

to go out to those who suffered, and how sure to do something to soothe

and cheer, many of us could tell. Or rather, it is not to be told. But

the want of it is felt. There are those of that family and acquaintance,

who will never weep, without the remembrance of her ready and wise

sympathy. The power of sympathy is not given to all. The feeling may be

in all, but not the faculty of so expressing and adapting it as to make

it truly sympathy. It requires one to be "acquainted with grief." It

requires a quick discernment and deep insight of character. That which

is sympathy to one may not reach, or may offend, another. Mrs. Ware

understood this so well, that she always accepted, for herself, most

gratefully, all attempts at condolence, and at the same time adapted her

own to the character and case of the sufferer. "In my intercourse with

her," says one, "I felt the difference between feeling _for_ and feeling

_with_ another." There is nothing belittling or weakening in such

sympathy. It appeals to the highest, and not, as is often done, to lower

motives and affections in the mourner. It does not condole merely, but

rejoices with him. To a friend in sorrow she writes: "My confidence

makes me rather rejoice for you, than grieve, that you should be called

to such suffering. There is so much of sublimity in these _great_ trials

of faith, that one feels raised by them to a nearer approach to the

Infinite, to a clearer vision of the realities of the spiritual world, a

nearness, almost oneness, with the Father of spirits. Who would desire

to avert any thing that will do this for us?" There is, too, a

self-respect and decision, with which even her humility clothes itself.

"Your case is much upon my mind, and I cannot help wishing there were

some mental daguerreotype, or magnetic communication, by which I could

transfer to your mind, without the intervention of words, all that is

passing in mine concerning you. 'Vain mortal!' whispers Humility, 'what

could you show her worth her seeing?' I was not thinking of the _worth_,

but of the sympathy and love. I know that is worth something even from

poor me. You say, 'Why do you not talk?' I have no habit of talking

about the internal, and I have so little love of discussing the

external, that I have no free use of language in any way; and it always

seems to me, when I make the attempt to utter what my mind is full of,

as if my thoughts all came wrong end foremost; and the idea of taking up

a person's time to listen to me seems so foolish, that it embarrasses me

by making me feel in a hurry to get through _for their sakes_."

But if she could not or did not talk much, in the way of solace, she

wrote freely; and her letters, though not original or remarkable, are

drawn from the depths of experience and faith. We offer none entire, but

only the parts that indicate her manner of urging upon others the great

truths and principles on which she herself relied. The extracts that

follow are not all of one character, but such as were called forth by

different experiences near the same time,--all showing the serious cast

of her own thoughts, and her deepening interest in others' moral

condition. The first was written to her son in the ministry.

* * * * *

"_February 9, 1846._ Dear John: Oh! you are but just beginning

to know what life truly is in its solemn discipline. The great

book of religious experience is now but opening to you; and,

believe me, you will find in it treasures of happiness of which

the heart of man _cannot_ conceive without such experience. You

say you feel something of 'fear' coming over you. I will not

say, put away all apprehension; uncertainty does hang over you,

but let it not produce fear. I would advocate a courageous

contemplation of possibilities, for in this way, I believe, the

benefits of all trial may be made greater. But let it be with a

quiet trust and hopefulness, such as we as Christians have a

right to feel; let it be with a steady faith, that whatever God

permits has a beneficent end and object, kindly to aid us in

the great work for which we were placed in this world of

trial,--the preparation of our souls for that spiritual life

which may be lived even while we are still in this world. Does

not our Father love us with a perfect love? Does he not know

better than we can what is best for us? Has he not power to

fulfil all his designs of good for us,--and shall we not, if

with childlike faith in that love and power we surrender our

will to his, find a peace which cannot be moved? I was once

most forcibly checked in some fruitless attempt to obtain peace

under great difficulties, upon false principles, by happening

upon these verses of Watts (I believe):--

'Is resignation's lesson hard?

On trial we shall find

It makes us give up nothing more

Than anguish of the mind.

Believe, and all the ills of life

That moment we resign,' &c.

And I never find myself trying to argue myself into

acquiescence to any dispensation by reasons other than those

implied in these lines, that they do not rise to my memory as a

rebuke. But still the struggle,--O, that struggle is great, and

we must not be discouraged that we find it so; that is part of

the discipline. Strength comes by effort; and only think what

precious teaching this is for _your_ work."

All who have read the beautiful Memoir of Robert Swain will feel the

greater interest in the following, written from his favorite

island-home, to a son in England, about the age of Robert, when he died.

"_Naushon, September 13, 1846._ I am glad, dear William, to

write to you from this place, not only because I am happy in

being here, but because it must remind you of him with whose

memory this place is so strongly associated, that one cannot

hear its name without having his beautiful character brought up

before the mind. I have thought much of you since I have been

here, in tracing Robert's life by the memorials which are

everywhere around me, in hearing his parents talk of the

formation of his character, in reading the record of his death,

and contemplating at his grave his present life. O, I have

felt, dear William, that to have such a child was the highest

happiness this world could give; and however great must have

been the pain of parting, and dreary the void which his absence

made in the earthly pilgrimage of his parents, it was all more

than compensated, by the satisfaction of having begun here such

a relation to so pure a spirit, which can never cease while the

soul lives. And how earnestly I have prayed, that my child,

too, might so understand the true object of existence, as to

make his spiritual progress the first aim under all

circumstances! We see in Robert's case how beautifully he was

training himself for heaven, while he lived the simple life of

an active boy, following all the common pursuits which belonged

to his age, but doing all with a conscientious reference to the

law of right. With the most devoted love towards his parents

and friends, he loved his God above all, and sought first of

all to obey Him. His grave is in one of the sweetest spots on

the island, in a little opening surrounded by trees which he

had named his 'mother's parlor'; and upon a seat which he had

made there for her I have spent some holy moments, with which

the thought of you was tenderly mingled. Dear son, may I have

the same satisfaction in your life, which these parents have in

that of their son! and should God in his providence call you

also thus early to himself, may I have reason to believe, as

they do, that for you the work of life was accomplished!...

"I trust you will come home ready to _begin_ the work of life

in earnest. When you look forward and consider that you must

depend on your own efforts for subsistence, that you have a

gift of mind for the use of which you are accountable to your

Maker, and that the person with one talent is equally

responsible with him who has ten, you will see that nothing

short of physical inability can excuse you from beginning at

once the work of self-education. All that can be done for you

is nothing, all the advantages with which you may be surrounded

are as nothing, if you do not set yourself to a conscientious

improvement of all. I care little what path you follow as to

external life, if you only follow it upon the basis of right

principle, which shall produce in you a manly, disinterested

regard to the accomplishment of all the good you may have it in

your power to perform."

A letter from England informed Mrs. Ware of the death of an excellent

kinswoman, who may be remembered as "Cousin Bessie," the wife of George

Lovell. And she wrote of it to Emma, then in New York, who had been her

fellow-traveller in England, and whose own health was gently but surely

declining.

"_Greenhill Cottage, December 18, 1846._ ... Dear Bessie's pure

spirit passed away in peace, the 22d of November. Her mind

remained perfectly clear to the last moment, calm and cheerful.

Hers was a sweet spirit, and I love to remember the intimate

intercourse I had with it in times past, for there was more in

her soul than appeared to the casual observer. Her departure

has added one more attraction to that spiritual state in which

I hope to renew the interchange of kind affection and holy

thought. How beautifully is it arranged for us, that, as we

approach nearer and nearer to the exchange of worlds ourselves,

our interest in that to which we are going should be so

increased by the removal of so many loved ones before us.

"It can be no new thought to _you_, that all sickness must be

of uncertain result, and you understand too well the object of

all the discipline of life, to shrink from any form of it which

Providence may appoint. To you and me, strength and power seem

so much our birthright, that we hardly know how to understand

ourselves when they fail; but it certainly is not difficult to

see why we peculiarly need the gentle monitions which sickness

brings to us. It would seem as if some of the capacities for

the enjoyment of the purely spiritual could not be formed in us

without them; we should be too self-dependent, too confident in

our own strength, to learn how to be the meek and lowly

disciples, to whom are promised the fruits of faith and trust.

I am sure that the sense I now have of liability to the

development of fatal disease at any time, is the source of some

of the most exalted moments of my present existence. So far

from its lessening our enjoyment of all that we ought to enjoy

belonging to life, it gives a keener sense of it, inasmuch as

it puts in their true position all the trifles which are so apt

to mar our comfort under common circumstances. I cannot but

believe that you will derive great relief from this experiment;

and if it does not reach all the difficulty, it certainly will

do this good,--that, by removing some of the causes of

irritation and consequent exhaustion, it leaves you more

strength to contend with what may remain of disease,--and,

after all, that is the main thing.

"... I have had a very kind note from Miss Sedgwick, inclosing

a letter from Madame Sismondi after reading Henry's Life. It

was a most gratifying testimony to the influence of the truth

upon a mind which had been educated to undervalue every thing

proceeding from our form of faith."

The younger son, to whom Mrs. Ware had written from Naushon, had now

returned from England, where he had been for his health, and was placed

at school in Exeter, in the well-known Phillips Academy. From his

mother's letters to him while there, we should be glad to borrow

largely, but must abridge. The number and fulness of these letters, when

we remember the state of her health, the care of her family, and all

else that she was doing, would surprise us, if we had not seen the same,

virtually, in every period and position of her life. The letters

themselves are written without effort or ornament, and contain much that

would be called "common-place," because they aim only at those simplest

truths and counsels which lie at the root of moral character.

During the time of writing the extracts that follow, Mrs. Ware went

herself to Exeter, alone and at the shortest notice,--finding that some

questions in regard to the course of study to be pursued by her son

could be best determined by her actual presence. It was one of her last

journeys, and, being in mid-winter, must have required resolution, if it

did not cost suffering.

"_January 1, 1847._ The clock has just struck one, so I may

fairly date 1847. And with the recollections of the old year

which has just passed away, and the anticipations of that upon

which we are entering, come many thoughts of you,--affecting

thoughts, for I remember my own experience at your age, and I

feel that this year must be to you one of the most important of

your whole existence, in its influence on your character and

happiness, both for this life and for that long future which

can be measured only by one word,--Eternity. It must bring to

you many trials, both of feeling and principle; it must bring

to you many deep spiritual exercises, and anxious thoughts with

regard to your religious progress. You have come to that period

of life at which one cannot escape from a deep sense of

responsibility for the formation of one's own character; when,

with every power and faculty in a peculiarly excitable state,

every nerve vibrates to the slightest touch of joy or sorrow,

and one feels perpetually in danger of being led by feeling

rather than by judgment. It is a period of intense enjoyment,

and for the same reason may be one of intense suffering; and

while it must depend much upon circumstances which shall

predominate, I believe it depends still more upon our own

self-discipline, in enabling us both to avoid many occasions of

suffering, and to meet with a calm spirit those which are

unavoidable. You are in a new position of independent action;

and while, with the deep sympathy which is the result of

experience, I can suffer and enjoy with you, in anticipation, I

feel the satisfaction of a quiet trust that 'all will issue

well.' I believe that you mean to govern yourself by the

highest principle, and in that faith I can leave you to the

guidance of your own conscience; hoping that you will never

forget, that principle, to do its perfect work, must be applied

to small things as well as great; that then only is it true

principle when it regulates even the tone of the voice, as well

as the most heroic action. Your mother's prayers are for you,

at this solemn turning-point of life, that, when this

anniversary next arrives, it may find you, whether in the body

or not, able to look back with satisfaction upon the past,

conscious that a true progress has been made towards that

perfection of the soul for which it was created....

"You will say, you have much to struggle with in your own

character, and that nothing can satisfy you while you have to

contend with self so continually. But your greatest temptation

is to dwell too much upon your internal trials, leading you

almost insensibly to that most insidious and deceptive form of

self-love, a too constant thought of self even in regard to

one's faults. You will find your intellectual occupation a

great help in preventing this. Do not think too much about your

own deficiencies, be content to live along in the constant

thought for others' good, and you will find that you have done

more for yourself by your disinterested action, than you could

have done by all the thought you would have given to the

subject in twice the time."

* * * * *

"_January 24._ ... Cultivate in yourself a religious spirit;

read God's word to learn what he would have you do; pray to Him

for power to do it,--and you _will_ succeed. Here lies the

only sure foundation. Religious principle is the rock upon

which alone you can build any superstructure; all other will be

like the sand on the sea-shore,--the next tide of temptation

will sweep it away. And do not think that it will interfere

with any of the pleasures of youth, or restrain the spirit of

mirth which belongs to your age. So far from it, it will

promote all enjoyment; for when we engage in that which we have

decided by the standard of principle to be right, we go forth

with a free spirit, to enjoy to the utmost,--without any of

that under-current of misgiving which is a perpetual check upon

us when we are engaged in a matter of doubtful expediency.

Experience must have already taught you this in some things,

and, believe me, it is equally true in all. You will have many

temptations in your little world, composed, as well as the

great world, of various characters. But if you once establish

it with yourself to pursue only the right, and to have a strong

moral courage to say 'No' to any measure of even doubtful

character, you will find that you not only gain peace of mind,

but win the respect even of those who may at first laugh at

you. Never fear for the result, if you only do _right_."

* * * * *

"_January 26, 1847._ Well, it was an event for me to go to

Exeter. All my associations with the place are of the most

interesting kind. All the romance of my youth was connected

with it; my first knowledge of your father was during his

residence there, through the medium of the admiration of that

brilliant circle of young ladies, in whose society he found

poetical inspiration. It was the home and the death-place of

the first specimen of the highly intellectual and spiritual

form of humanity that I had ever known intimately, in the

person of your father's dear friend, John E. Abbot; and the

very name of Exeter was sacred to me, from its connection with

the daily details of his last sickness, which I received from

Mrs. P----, then residing in her Aunt Abbot's family. I had

been there, however, only once, twenty years ago with your

father, when together we visited John Abbot's grave, and gave

ourselves up to the emotions connected with his memory. You may

believe that it was with no common feelings that I went alone,

upon such an errand, to that spot. The sense of my sole

responsibility in the care of my children presses upon me at

all times; but it bore with peculiar power at that time and at

that place, reminded, as I could not but be, how little

qualified I was to decide the question, in comparison with a

father's knowledge and experience."

* * * * *

"_February 2._ ... This has been an intensely interesting day to

me. What a thing is this _gift_ of life,--this strange, first

union of the spiritual and the material! How closely such an

event brings one near to the great Origin of all, and in what

an interesting, affecting relation! The tender Father, watching

over, protecting, sustaining, a feeble, mortal child in the

greatest work of creation, the introduction of a new heir of

immortality to the path which is to lead it to receive its

inheritance!"

* * * * *

"_March 3._ ... Do not for a moment lose sight of your dear

father's example. He was what he was, not by the bestowment of

great natural powers, but by the religious industry with which

he used his powers, the high standard of moral and religious

character at which he aimed, the disinterested devotion with

which he labored for others' good. _He cultivated his

conscience_, and by its light he cultivated his intellect;

marking out for himself that path in life in which he felt

himself most likely to be useful. And this was the secret of

his great success. He was willing to do any thing he could; and

he regulated that 'could' by the most unwearied industry. What

cannot one do, with such a lever?"

We have not thought it necessary to speak of Mrs. Ware's peculiar

interest in the public ministrations of religion. Such an interest, in a

woman even of practical good-sense, is a matter of course. She could

not, in any possible circumstances, think lightly of public worship, for

others or for herself. Nor was she dependent upon the form and medium of

worship; since, whatever her choice or taste, she thought more of the

spirit than of the letter or manner. Either from hearing her quote the

couplet, or from a knowledge of her feelings, we often think of her in

connection with the quaint lines of old Herbert:--

"The worst speak something good; should all want sense,

God takes the text, and preaches--patience."

Patient she was, even interested, in all preaching that evidently came

from the heart, however homely, and in all preachers who were sincerely

engaged in their Master's cause. But for the lukewarm and the selfish,

for those who preached not Christ, but themselves, and offered stones

rather than bread to the hungry soul, she found it difficult to maintain

her respect, or refrain from expressing a very different sentiment. Her

indignation at some kinds of preaching, and the abuse of sacred time,

was as strong and almost as terrible as that which we sometimes heard

from even the gentle spirit of her husband. It was to him that she once

wrote: "Mr. ---- gave us a philosophical disquisition on the nature and

properties of mind and matter, containing (I suppose) a conclusive

argument against Materialism, abounding in technical phrases and

abstruse quotations,--which, to a certainty, not one in fifty of his

audience could understand. What food for sinful, accountable,

half-asleep souls! If an inhabitant of the insane hospital had called

such a production a sermon, he might be excused the misnomer. But in a

minister of Christ to an erring world, it is nothing short of

profanation." She loved simplicity of manner, as well as matter. She

loved a fervid, but quiet utterance. Of one of the popular preachers she

says: "Such grand and momentous views as he brings together do not seem

to me--it is a matter of taste, I suppose--to need the factitious aid of

such a declamatory style of writing or studied mode of delivery. I want

to strip them of all this, and cannot help thinking, that in their

simple, naked sublimity they would be quite as effective,--to many minds

more so."

As life advanced, Mrs. Ware felt more and more the value of religious

connections; and both in Framingham and Milton she found great

satisfaction. Such a hearer and parishioner gives more than she

receives. Would that all knew how inestimable is the blessing to a

minister! We cannot withhold the testimony of one pastor to her

character in this single relation:--"None could be more candid, more

kind, more sympathizing, or more appreciating. Her seat at church

scarcely ever vacant, her interest warmly expressed by word and deed in

every event and place connected with our spiritual growth and

prosperity; reverent, and almost punctiliously faithful in her

attachment to the church, its forms and its order were cherished with a

true-hearted veneration and love,--while none could have exceeded her in

the spirituality of her religious views, or have risen more entirely

above a mere formalism.... On those occasions, too, of trial, which will

at times arise in a minister's service, when he may be called to speak

or act with boldness, or adventure upon untried experiments, she was

ever prompt and hearty in expressions of encouragement. Instances of

this nature occur to me, where she would stop at my house on her return

from church, and leave the benediction of a kind word of sympathy and

god-speed, uttered with all the emotion of her sympathetic nature, to

assure me that one heart at least was in unison with my own."

Of the "church in the house" we dare not speak,--except to say, that she

who was for so long a time its only head did not believe that all

religious service must wait for a priest, nor even for a man. Never will

the sweetness of _that_ voice, in devotion, Scripture, or hymn, die

away from the heart. Never will those cherished words, "To prayer, to

prayer! for the morning breaks,"--be so moving and uplifting, as in that

dwelling, where the thought of death, just past or just approaching,

served but to quicken the spirit of Devotion.

At the period now reached, 1847, the letters of Mrs. Ware continued to

be nearly as many as formerly, and quite as cheerful. There is a large

class of letters that have been scarcely represented in this sketch;

those which are filled with details of domestic life, personal and

private incidents, and playful communications. No absent child was left

in ignorance of that which occurred at home. Nothing that could

interest, edify, or amuse was thought too trivial to be recorded, if it

would tend to strengthen the bonds of family affection. "I believe the

love of _home_ to be the best safeguard to man and woman for life,"--she

once said; and she used every opportunity of cherishing that love, in

the hearts both of the present and the absent. She had no habit of

reservation or concealment with those about her, unless in regard to her

own pains and trials. And as those pains and trials increased, we find

no decline of general interest or free communion. More and more freely,

rather than less, does she speak of herself, her expectations as to this

life and another, her concern for her own strength and resources, and

the character and prospects of her children. The following letter to her

son was written some time in the summer of this year.

"_Milton, 1847._

"MY DEAR JOHN:--

" ... I am not now as able to keep school as I was then, poorly

fitted though I always felt myself. My head has been a very

troublesome member for a long time, and I have had in the

course of the last year and a half two distinct attacks, which,

if not actually paralytic, were sufficiently like it to be

considered premonitory symptoms of that affection,--amounting

to loss of sensation, and giddiness, followed by a great

oppression in the brain, for a long time after. Since this I

have found that I soon get overpowered and bewildered in the

bustle of the school, and, after a few days' trial, it is only

by going at once to sleep, that I can get my head clear for the

rest of the day. Besides that, the sense of hurry which I have

from the daily pressure of the necessity of adhering to certain

hours, in order to get through the necessary business of the

day, keeps my head in a state of tension which I often feel

must end in some sudden change. I work almost constantly

eighteen hours out of the twenty-four; but this I could bear,

were it not for the sense of hurry I have, in my anxiety to

spare E---- every thing that I possibly can, while she has the

labor of the school. Nor is this all. I am sensible that the

trouble in my side does _not_ diminish or stand still; its

progress is slow, but evidently sure; and though there are

often weeks, in which I am not reminded of it by any sensation,

there are times when it produces great discomfort. I know from

the nature of the case, that this may be so many years, and

also, that at any moment it may suddenly come to a crisis, as

in many cases I have known.

"And I feel that with the bare possibility (and it is much

more) of having but a few years more to give to my children, I

should be wrong to spend these few years in such a hurried

life, that I cannot have time to give them an unfettered hour.

This is the case now; whether from want of faculty, or an undue

anxiety to spare others, or the necessity of the case, I cannot

say. All I know is, that, of the eighteen hours in which I am

awake, I have not one, commonly, free from the pressure of some

necessary, imperative occupation. I may almost say, I _never_

choose my employment; and as you find it, so do I with regard

to my children at home,--I cannot give any of them a hundredth

part of the time I would gladly devote to them.... You wonder

that I cannot be more with you. You would not wonder, if you

could see how little I have time to do with my children at

home. This ought not to be so. But then comes the question, how

am I to live, how educate my children, and pay my debts, if I

give up so much of my income?

"I answer myself in this way, and I feel satisfied with the

answer. If I am not to live, what now supports me will help

towards this end; and if I do live, I feel justified in

creating a debt for my children to pay by and by, when they are

old enough to work, in order to give them the means of working

to advantage. I trust they will all find a mission to fulfil,

which will keep them free from dependence, and do good to their

fellow-men. I will trust that I shall be taken care of; for I

think the case of duty is clear,--at least it is so to me, and

I feel that I cannot turn from it.

"Now do not think that this uncertainty of life troubles me, or

makes me nervous, and unnecessarily anxious. I have never felt

more perfect peace of mind, than I have for the last three

years, with respect to death. I have felt it a great blessing

to be thus reminded of the uncertainty of my life. It is a

constant check upon me, and, moreover, makes all the pleasures

which lie in my path greater blessings. There is an elevation

in such an habitual state of mind, which takes one beautifully

away from the annoying perplexities of life. I could write on

for hours, but I have said enough. You will understand me, and

that is all I desire now.

"Affectionately, your Mother."

Another expression of a different kind was called out at this time, by a

case of bereavement in which she felt deeply concerned. We give the

letter entire as to its object and argument, because in none of her

letters, and in no others that we recall, is the question which is here

raised so well stated and answered. It is a question which comes to

every conscientious sufferer,--pertaining to the conflict between a

sense of duty to ourselves and duty to others, in the season of

affliction and secret communion,--the desire for repose and the call for

activity. We well know what conflicts both Mrs. Ware and her husband had

had, in regard to this question; and we follow her with the greater

satisfaction, as she offers the result of her experience and conviction

to one of another household, and of the other sex.

"_Milton, 1847._

"MY DEAR FRIEND:--

"My visit to you this afternoon was so broken, so

unsatisfactory, my thoughts are so entirely with you, and my

desire to help you, at least so far as sympathy can do so, is

so strong, that I must indulge myself this once in intruding my

poor written words upon you, for my own relief. Very grateful

do I feel to you for uttering yourself so freely to me: you do

not mistake, when you believe that I can understand all your

doubts and fears, misgivings and contentions. I have felt them

all; and in the knowledge which I have of all my husband

suffered, I feel as if I had a double power to sympathize with

you. Well do I understand that strange elevation of spirit

which comes to one in the first hours of bereavement, when the

heart is strong to endure, and the mind seems to act

spontaneously. It would seem, when one with whose spirit ours

had become as it were identified 'passes on,' as if we too had

entered 'behind the veil,' and were also raised above the

weakness and suffering of humanity. But this cannot last long,

and the necessity of a return to the occupations of life

dispels the illusion, and then comes the struggle from which

you are now suffering. Two opposing duties seem to present

themselves,--one claiming quiet seclusion, the other impelling

to great activity. We long for rest, we doubt if we have a

right to risk the loss of any portion of the benefit which may

come to us from the life of meditation and self-communion to

which our state of mind _naturally_ leads us, by going back to

the busy bustle of external life. We feel that our soul has

been moved to its very depth, as it never was before, and we

long to 'hold the fleet angel fast, until he bless us' with an

increase of spiritual life, proportionate to the demands of our

condition. But on the other hand, there lie the duties of life,

appointed by God for _us_ to perform; in their performance lies

our mission to the world; have we any right to neglect them for

any object of self-improvement? How shall we decide, when two

duties, apparently of equal importance, seem to us perfectly

incompatible?

"But here, I think, lies our great mistake. We separate that

which God has joined together; there can be no opposition in

his requisitions, and if both duties are required of us, it

must be that they may be united. What is spiritual progress?

What is the benefit we believe to be intended for us by the

discipline of bereavement? Is it increased love of God,

reliance upon him, union of soul with him? How shall we gain

these by any process of meditation, so entirely as when,

contending against our desire for repose, conscious of our

utter weakness, throwing ourselves with the reliance of filial

affection upon a Father's love, we go forth to execute His will

in the fulfilment of the duties He has assigned us, believing

that His promises of strength will not fail? And did they ever

fail? And do we not by this act of faith bring our souls into

that union with God which we so much desire, more truly than by

any abstract thought? How can it be nearer than when, in the

consciousness of our human weakness, we feel that whatever

strength we have is His,--that He is indeed present to us,

acting in us,--and we know that, while we have this faith, He

will never cease to aid us.

"But you will say you have tried this, and strength does not

come; you find yourself more and more averse to effort, more

and more incapable of it. But are you sure you are not aiming

at impossibilities,--that you are not requiring from the nature

God has given you more than you have a right to expect, and

that, by striving after more than you can reasonably hope to

obtain, you render ineffective the power given? Do not

misunderstand me. I would not bring down in the very slightest

degree the high standard of Christian excellence at which you

aim; but I would have you understand truly the nature of the

means which the Creator has given us by which to attain it.

'Deal gently with thine infirmity, wait God's time.' You desire

at once to rise to the height to which you believe a Christian

faith may elevate its possessor, and you are discouraged that

the work is not accomplished when _you_ think it ought to be.

Put aside, my dear friend, this desire to regulate the

operation of God's providence. You say you have never for a

moment felt that you were hardly dealt with, in the outward

circumstances of this affliction. Apply the same faith to its

internal circumstances; give up your own will as fully in the

one case as in the other; go on, meekly relying upon Almighty

wisdom, with your appointed work, not attempting too much at

once, but selecting just that which seems most important,

increasing your labors as you may find strength comes to aid

you, and be content to use such measure of strength as God

shall give, without repining that it is not more; and this will

bring you that 'peace' for which you now sigh. Waste not one

moment in vain regret that you cannot do all you desire. O, I

could read you such a page of suffering from this source, as

would make you weep for the sinfulness of your monitor! If I

cannot be an example, let me be a warning to you. May I be an

efficient one!

"Ever your friend.

"M. L. WARE."

How much is told in that last confession and prayer! She who thus wrote

was then in the midst of a fatherless and dependent family, bearing a

load of duty never discharged to her own satisfaction, wearing a face of

unvarying cheerfulness, and struggling with a fatal disease, whose

progress could not be hidden from herself, though hidden from others.

That equanimity, which had always been marked as a distinguishing trait,

came out now more and more, as the demand increased, and the difficulty

also. Every one knows the tendency of disease to produce

irritation,--sometimes imperceptibly to the sufferer, sometimes

unavoidably, and with a painful consciousness. In no duty or sympathy

for the sick is there more need of kind allowance; and in none, perhaps,

is it more wanting. Here, it was not needed. No irritation ever

appeared. We say this, not from that cursory and friendly observation

which so often mistakes, but from those who knew. One near her thus

speaks of her equanimity: "Taking her life through, as I knew it, there

were disturbing _causes_ enough. Neither the lesser nor the greater

seemed to throw her off her balance. I cannot recall a word or act of

harshness. Disturbed, moved, sad, I have seen her, but nothing of

irritation; and the first, where others were concerned, or some

principle, or morality, rather than where she was herself personally

interested."

Another _affliction_ came, and came nearer than any other could, out of

her own family circle. The decline which she had so anxiously watched in

"Emma" terminated as she had long known it must; and that true friend

had gone before her to a purer sphere. Deeply must Mary have felt this

at any time,--how deeply then! Toward the end, all the time that could

be spared, day and night, had been passed in that sick-room, where she

enjoyed a communion, and exerted an influence, that few could. Perfect

congeniality, perfect confidence, an intimacy of years and souls, a

unity of faith and hope, with an affection unreserved and undimmed,

bound them as one; and when the tie was severed, the world seemed

another abode,--fast passing away.

The letters in which Mrs. Ware speaks of this change are most tender,

and reveal as much of the character of the writer as of the subject. But

they are too personal to admit a free use. A brief account we may take,

from a letter which we ourselves received.

"I do not remember that I have written to you since dear cousin

Emma's death. I should love to tell you of the pleasant hours

passed in her chamber after her return from Europe, the

precious hours of her last week with us. Her state of mind was

a most elevated one, but her words were few. She could not

overcome the habit of reserve upon spiritual subjects, and it

was only in moments of the most private intercourse that she

would utter herself freely. It was a beautiful case of great

humility, united with perfect trust. She never for an instant

faltered in her faith, but laid down her almost unequalled

power with as perfect readiness as if she had never loved its

exercise. You may suppose that her loss is daily, hourly felt,

by all who belonged to her. This is not the same place without

her. We constantly miss her wisdom and her disinterested

kindness. Do you know that she made this cottage mine,--and

more? I never received any gift which was so unexpected, or so

touching. It has made this place more beautiful than ever; for

the very walls have now a sacred association."

On Christmas Eve, 1847, Mrs. Ware, with some of her children, joined a

family gathering at Cambridge, in the same house that they occupied

during those twelve eventful years. And many were the recollections

awakened there. "O, how strange it seemed to me, to be 'guest' in that

house, on such an occasion! I could scarcely help a sense of

responsibility, as if it were my affair. And my heart turned

instinctively to the thought of all my responsibilities there, and the

thought of how much _he_ would have enjoyed, and added to the enjoyment

of others. There was a sense of the want of his visible presence, such

as I never expected to feel again, so familiar have I become with the

idea of the invisible." On the last night of the year, she writes in a

tone more like sadness than was common with her, though with the same

tranquil trust:--"I live now so entirely among the young, who could not

comprehend the results of an old woman's long experience, that I am

unconsciously led to shut up the thoughts which mostly occupy me, lest

any should be annoyed by what they might not understand. And there are

consequently periods when it seems as if I should _stop_, from want of

the sympathy and counsel of some contemporary who knew the past as well

as I do myself. In the various questionings about my children, and the

many doubts which will come to an insulated mind, how have I craved your

ear!... It has seemed to me, since Emma's death, that every thing was

giving way around me. I cannot tell you what a sense, a perpetual sense

of uncertainty, appears to pervade every thing. It seems as if not

merely one strong being had failed by the way, but as if strength

itself, the very thing, had become weakness. And I find myself clinging

more than ever to the things that remain, and more and more impatient to

use opportunities of intercourse with those I love, feeling that the

time is short both for them and myself. Little did I think, at this time

last year, that I should be here now; and when I look back upon the

interval, and remember that, instead of the sickness I anticipated, not

one day of actual suspension of labor have I had, I am amazed at the

small amount I have accomplished, and wonder why it is I am left. The

year has been marked by less external change than usual, and yet it has

brought some important changes in the progress of my children's

education."

And if Mrs. Ware had not expected to see the end of that year, she could

have little idea of seeing the whole of another. Yet this was granted

her,--and a little more. And whatever the inward change, there was none

outward, unless in greater diligence in duty, and a more earnest

endeavor to make others happy. This, too, was evident, in conversation

and in letters,--that while life in the present was still full and

bright, there was a growing conviction of life beyond and above. It was

seen particularly, as one and another of her friends departed,--when the

emotions expressed were more of joy than of sadness, as in the case of a

bereavement not long before. "O, how the holy band is gathering in that

other state! And how near does it seem to us, when those with whom we

have been wont to have daily intercourse enter it! I think, as I grow

older, no part of my experience satisfies me so much, as the

consciousness of an increasing _sense of union_ with a purely spiritual

state. Not that one loses all interest in this state, but there comes a

fuller sense of the reality of another."